The Reformed Vampire Support Group

by Catherine Jinks

  Dave’s hatchback cruised past, then pulled over to the kerb a few metres ahead of us.

  I immediately jabbed Horace in the ribs.

  ‘It’s Dave!’ I squeaked.

  ‘I know,’ Horace rejoined.

  ‘Go and get some money! Quick!’ was my advice, which Horace rejected.

  ‘No – you go,’ he said. Clearly, he didn’t relish the prospect of asking Dave for anything. ‘I’ll stay here.’

  ‘All by yourself?’ (What I meant, of course, was: all by yourself with an exposed neck in front of you?) ‘I don’t think so, Horace.’

  He gestured at the plastic screen that separated him from the driver, as if to say ‘it’ll be fine’. But I shook my head.

  ‘Not an option,’ I firmly decreed. ‘You go, and I’ll wait.’

  ‘We can both go.’

  ‘No, you can’t,’ the driver interrupted. He turned to look at us. ‘I’m not having you both take off in your friend’s car.’

  ‘Here.’ I divested myself of Horace’s sunglasses. ‘Take these, and give me back Mum’s. Or you’ll break your neck before you get there.’

  Horace sighed. Then he swapped sunglasses and climbed out of the cab. I tried to watch as he shuffled towards Dave’s hatchback, but Mum’s prescription lenses wouldn’t let me; they blurred and distorted everything I focused on. So I shut my eyes and waited.

  At last I heard footsteps approaching. They were obviously Dave’s, because as soon as they stopped, he began to speak.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he said gruffly, almost in my ear. ‘Bit of a mix-up. How much do we owe you?’

  I opened my eyes, and saw that Dave had leaned down to address the driver. By squinting, I could just make out the wad of notes that was changing hands. While the two men completed their transaction, I pushed open the rear passenger door.

  Like a visually impaired person, I practically had to feel my way out of the cab.

  ‘Okay,’ Dave continued. He tucked something into his pocket. ‘Thanks, mate. Have a good one.’

  ‘What’s up with all these sunglasses?’ the driver demanded in reply. ‘Who are you supposed to be, anyway?’

  ‘He’s supposed to be a rock star,’ I supplied, knowing that Dave wouldn’t understand the question. Then I slammed the door and stumbled off the road.

  I was finding it hard to keep my balance.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Dave asked, upon joining me. ‘Are you feeling sick, still?’

  ‘I can’t see. These are Mum’s sunnies. They’ve got prescription lenses.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Nina …’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I was, too. ‘I’m really sorry, Dave.’

  ‘Here.’ He pressed another pair of sunglasses into my hands. ‘Put these on.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’ve got a spare set in the glove box.’

  ‘Dave, this wasn’t my idea—’

  ‘Later.’

  By then our cab was on the move again. I was able to see its red tail-lights disappearing into the shadows, thanks to Dave’s trendy Ray-Bans. His blue hatchback was sitting, dark and motionless, some distance from the nearest streetlight – so he didn’t need my assistance to reach it, despite the fact that his eyes were unprotected. He managed quite well on his own, without tripping or haemorrhaging or bumping into a tree.

  But when he arrived, he nearly had a heart attack. Horace wasn’t waiting for us.

  ‘What the …?’ Dave yanked open the hatchback’s front passenger door, as if expecting to find Horace curled up in a footwell. I scanned our immediate surroundings.

  There wasn’t a human being in sight.

  ‘He can’t have gone off by himself!’ I exclaimed, as Dave extracted a pair of sunglasses from his glove box. ‘He can’t be that stupid!’

  ‘Don’t bet on it,’ Dave growled. Having shielded his eyes, he was able to survey the row of brick apartment buildings that occupied one whole side of the street. ‘Which one is it?’ he asked. ‘Which one is number seventeen?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ The words were barely out of my mouth when a shifting shadow caught my attention. ‘Look!’ I yipped. ‘Over there!’

  ‘Quick,’ said Dave. He set off at a pace so rapid that I had a hard time matching it. We passed several driveways before we reached a small front yard stuffed with cypress pines, behind which lurked a narrow, four-storied structure called ‘Grandview’. Halfway down the side of this building, a modest entrance foyer opened off the driveway. A separate row of garages stood hard against the rear fence.

  I couldn’t see any sign of Horace. But then again, there wasn’t much light to see with. Dave had begun to slow down, in an attempt to tread more quietly; he must have been worried about the ground-floor windows. Like me, he must have realised that we would look just like burglars to anyone who happened to glance outside at such an ungodly hour, alerted by the scrape of footsteps on cement.

  Perhaps that’s why he suddenly decided to switch off his mobile.

  ‘Around the other side,’ he breathed, when I caught up with him. I nodded. It was likely that Horace had concealed himself behind the building – or so I thought. And I was right, too. Because as we turned the first corner, we almost ran into him.

  He’d pressed his nose flat against a ground-floor windowpane. Though the sound of our approach made him start, he didn’t seem to mind being interrupted. On the contrary, he greeted us with enthusiasm, grinning and beckoning when he saw who we were. He wanted us to share his discovery.

  But Dave wouldn’t cooperate. Instead he shook his head and beckoned to Horace, who jabbed urgently at the window with his index finger. I couldn’t help myself; I had to find out what Horace was pointing at.

  He moved aside to give me a better look. The pale strip of light that illuminated his left cheek was spilling through a gap left by a broken blind-slat; upon peering through this narrow slot, I found that I had a very good – if circumscribed – view of the living room beyond.

  This room was lit by the soft glow of a large television, which stood on a low credenza beside the front door. Facing the door was a shabby old couch, and draped across the couch was Barry McKinnon, fast asleep with his mouth open.

  There was a pistol on his lap.

  ‘Do you know him?’ Horace whispered.

  I gave a nod. ‘It’s Barry,’ I replied, under my breath.

  ‘Good.’ Horace lifted one hand, displaying a key ring with three keys attached. ‘The kitchen’s through that doorway behind him. And the back door leads into the kitchen. I had a look.’

  ‘You found Nefley’s peg basket.’ It was a statement, not a question. In response, Horace grinned and winked. Beyond the window-glass, murmurous voices were interrupted by the tinny sound of gunshots coming from the TV.

  By this time Dave was beside me, so I yielded my place to him. Then I dragged Horace’s head down until his ear was level with my mouth.

  ‘Where are the others?’ I hissed.

  He shrugged. ‘Not in the kitchen,’ he assured me, ‘and that’s all that matters. If we sneak through the kitchen, and surprise this one, we’ll have his gun before the other one can do a thing.’

  ‘But what if Barry hears us?’ I objected, in hushed tones.

  ‘Are you kidding?’ Horace cocked his thumb at the pane of glass. ‘He’s got the TV turned right up. He wouldn’t hear a fire alarm, let alone a footstep.’

  ‘You can’t be serious.’ At last Dave weighed in. Hustling us away from the window, he addressed us with as much force as his low-pitched delivery would allow. ‘That other door must lead to a bedroom. Dermid could be in there with his rifle. What if he comes out and starts blasting away?’

  ‘He won’t, if we’re aiming the handgun at him,’ Horace rasped. And I said, in a whisper, ‘If they start shooting, it’s going to cause a big commotion. They won’t want that. They won’t want anyone calling the police, Dave.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Horace gave his firm (if muted) support
to my opinion. But Dave was unconvinced.

  ‘They’d be long gone before the police got here,’ he pointed out. ‘They might decide to take the risk.’

  ‘So what?’ Horace was becoming too loud; he caught himself, and continued more softly. ‘Even if they start shooting, it’s not going to kill us.’

  ‘Please, Dave.’ Suddenly I found it impossible to contemplate walking away without Reuben. To do something so feeble – so flaccid and pathetic – would be hard to live with. Even a bullet in the gut might be preferable to a never-ending sense of worthlessness.

  Being a vampire was bad enough. Being a skulking, cowardly, apathetic vampire would be hideous.

  ‘We can’t just go,’ I pleaded. ‘Not without trying. Now that we’re here, we can’t run away with our tails between our legs.’ As Dave wrestled with conflicting emotions (which were written all over his chalk-white face), I tried to make him agree with me. Because if Dave agreed with me, then I was probably right. ‘They think we’re dead. They’ll be wetting themselves.’

  ‘Yeah. Plus there are three of us, and only two of them,’ Horace added.

  ‘It’s Reuben, Dave. Reuben. He might be chained up. He’s not an animal. He doesn’t deserve this.’

  ‘Why don’t you go in the back with Nina, and I’ll listen outside the front door?’ Horace suggested. From Nefley’s key ring he removed one key, which he offered to Dave. ‘That way, if he bails you up, I can jump him from behind.’

  ‘Please? Dave? I really think we can do this.’ Oddly enough, I was feeling much better; my stomach wasn’t bothering me any more, and my head was remarkably clear. It was as if the prospect of imminent danger had cured me. ‘I don’t want the police finding out about us,’ was my final argument, which seemed to have an impact. Dave sighed. He dragged his fingers through his hair. Then he glanced over his shoulder at the apartment building.

  ‘I dunno …’ he muttered.

  ‘We’ll go in without you,’ warned Horace. ‘Nina through the back, and me through the front.’

  ‘Nina’s not going anywhere.’ On this point Dave was adamant, though careful not to raise his voice (which had a slightly desperate edge to it). ‘I’ll go in first, and – and Nina, you can stay here.’

  ‘I’m not staying here.’

  ‘Yes, you are,’ he insisted. ‘If something goes wrong, you can call for help. I’ll give you my phone.’

  ‘I’m not staying here by myself.’ It’s hard to sound determined when you’re speaking so quietly, but I did my best. ‘If you leave me here, I’ll just follow you anyway!’

  ‘It would be better if she came along,’ Horace advised. ‘She looks more like a zombie than you do – no offence, Nina.’

  ‘Gee, thanks.’

  ‘It’s a good thing,’ said Horace. ‘You’ll scare them. Especially if you’re wearing my coat.’ He began to remove his satin cape, exposing the velvet frockcoat underneath. ‘And Dave can put on my Dracula cape,’ he proposed, under his breath.

  ‘Okay, listen.’ Abruptly, Dave decided to capitulate. He took the key that Horace had been attempting to force on him. It was clear, however, that he wasn’t about to let anyone else call the shots. ‘This is what we’ll do,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll go in first, and surprise Barry, and take his gun. If he wakes up, I’ll say something as a kind of signal, and you’ – he jerked his chin at Horace – ‘you can come in through the front door, and distract him just long enough for me to throw a punch. Okay?’

  As Horace executed an enthusiastic thumbs-up sign, I stared at Dave in astonishment. ‘Do you actually know how to punch people?’ I asked. And he swallowed.

  ‘I’m aware that you’re not a big vampire fan, Nina, but we’re not all completely useless,’ he muttered, before returning to the subject of Barry McKinnon. ‘If we get inside without disturbing him, then you and I can take his gun into the bedroom and see what’s happening there,’ Dave continued, still addressing me. ‘Maybe Dermid’s asleep too. Maybe they’re both dead drunk. I sure hope so.’ He accepted Horace’s cape, which he draped around his shoulders. ‘Right – let’s get this over with, before I change my mind. Did you bring any rope with you?’

  ‘Rope?’ echoed Horace.

  ‘Or wire, or something. To tie people up with.’

  ‘Uh …’ When Horace and I exchanged guilty glances, Dave rolled his eyes. But nothing more was said. Having wordlessly expressed his impatience with us, Dave turned on his heel and made for the back door of Nefley Irving’s apartment.

  It was the last in a line of eight doors, each opening onto a narrow strip of concrete. These doors were overshadowed by the first- and second-floor balconies, and were positioned directly opposite eight matching rotary clothes lines – which had been planted in a row beside a dilapidated paling fence. I wondered if the poor light was to blame for Grandview’s grubby and dispirited appearance. Or did everything look just as bad in the daytime?

  Nefley’s peg basket was sitting under his kitchen window, between the back steps and the garbage bin.

  ‘Ssst!’ As I caught up with Dave, I grabbed his arm. My voice was a mere thread of sound. ‘Do you know how to use a gun?’ I asked him.

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ was his cryptic (and almost inaudible) response. After scanning the other windows for signs of life – and finding none – he focused his attention on Nefley’s, which was shut but not screened. Beyond it, a murky room full of cupboards was faintly visible, though even I couldn’t identify many of the objects strewn around on top of them. The light was much too poor.

  Nevertheless, I could tell that no one was in the kitchen. We would be able to slip in unobserved, because the door to the living room was shut.

  Dave took a deep breath. We both removed our sunglasses. For a moment he held my gaze; we stared at each other mutely, poised on the edge of what was shaping up to be a possible disaster. I remember thinking: Thank God Dave’s here. And it crossed my mind that I should probably come out and say something while I still could – something along the lines of how important he was to all of us, and how grateful I was for everything he’d done, and how terrible it would be if he got hurt. But I couldn’t. There really wasn’t enough time. Anyway, I was kind of hoping he might say something to me first.

  He didn’t, though. Instead he slowly and carefully inserted his key into the Yale lock on the back door.

  We were very fortunate. The door didn’t squeak as it swung open. I decided that Nefley must have been oiling its hinges; he’d certainly been mopping his kitchen floor, since the soles of our shoes didn’t peel noisily off ancient, sticky spillages. There were empty pizza boxes and dirty glasses beside the sink, but I had a feeling that the McKinnons were to blame for those. To judge from his up-to-date calendar and gleaming splashbacks, Nefley wasn’t the kind of person who would go to bed without washing his dishes.

  The chatter from the television was much louder than it had been outside, masking the soft click of the back door closing. We passed a knife block on our way to the living room. When I reached for a knife, however, Dave shook his head. ‘No,’ he mouthed. I was puzzled, at first; my heart was pounding like a jackhammer, and I couldn’t see why Dave should want to deprive me of even the most basic weapon.

  It wasn’t until he’d tapped his canine tooth, and struck a ‘Mr Universe’ pose, that I finally understood. Vampires were supposed to be strong. A knife would send the opposite signal: it would suggest that we needed weapons. And it wouldn’t provide much protection against a gun, in any case.

  I could see Dave’s point. It made a lot of sense. All the same, as he turned the doorknob, I would have given anything for a concealed weapon.

  Even a perfume bottle full of Windex would have been better than nothing.

  22

  ‘Well, you c’n take your punk-ass outta here, or I’ll blow your goddamn head off!’

  Someone on TV unleashed a machine gun just as Dave pushed open the door to the living room. If any hinges squealed or floorboar
ds creaked, the noise was drowned by an explosive rat-tat-tat-tat, which didn’t seem to disturb Barry McKinnon in the slightest. Barely visible over the top of the couch’s headrest, his balding scalp remained motionless despite the sudden barrage of automatic gunfire.

  Step by cautious step, Dave approached the couch. I hung back, my nervous gaze flicking between his receding figure and the bedroom door. Even in my state of acute anxiety, I was astonished at the number of vampire books and vampire posters that Nefley Irving had managed to accumulate. (No Bloodstone Chronicles, though; as I said before, I’m not exactly Stephenie Meyer.) His crucifix collection was pretty awe-inspiring, too. But I didn’t like the sharpened stakes that were stacked up against one wall. They were just plain creepy.

  I remember holding my breath. I remember thinking: If I throw up now, we’re dead meat.

  Then all at once there was a flurry of movement.

  ‘FREEZE!’ Barry yelled, whirling around. Suddenly Dave was looking down the barrel of a gun. At that same instant, however, Barry recognised us. I could see it on his face; his features sagged, his eyes bulged, his jaw dropped. Disbelief paralysed him, just long enough for Dave to gain control.

  With a magnificent display of self-possession, Dave took another step forward. He probably would have presented a fairly chilling spectacle even if he hadn’t been wearing the black cape; his bleached complexion, shaggy head and mournful, dark-ringed eyes were straight out of a manga comic book. Nevertheless, I was staggered by his courage. And for the first time ever, it occurred to me that Zadia Bloodstone wasn’t such a fantastical creation after all. Because let’s face it: I was standing in the presence of a genuine, top-grade, real-life hero.

  This became even more obvious when Dave opened his mouth.

  ‘It’s no use trying to kill me, Mr McKinnon,’ he flatly declared. ‘Because I’m already dead.’

  He’d hardly finished speaking before the front door rattled. As Horace began to make his entrance, Barry was momentarily distracted. His eyes flickered, his head turned, and in that split second Dave lunged, swatting the firearm out of Barry’s hand.